Lethal Investments (13 page)

Elise Engebregtsen was waiting for them with the door open when they appeared outside the lift doors. She was fat. Unusually fat. And the grey smile revealed an ageing set of dentures.

‘Morning,’ she said. ‘I don’t know anything, so you can just go again. I don’t know anything.’

Frank smiled courteously, inclined his head. Looked down at her. A checked apron. Stout upper arms and an imposing backside, thick ankles that flowed over her slippers. Sixty maybe. Maybe sixty-five. Her dentures were catching flies. Clicking sounds caused by a nervous tongue.
What a bite on her! Like a trout’s
, he thought, fascinated.

Gunnarstranda coughed.

‘All right, come in then! But I’ve told you! I don’t know anything.’

She waggled in front of them. As broad as a sumo wrestler. Small head with greasy, auburn wispy hair, cut close to her ears. Heavy, rhythmical breathing. She was a wrestler, a real one. Her teeth clicked.

‘Aahhh,’ she groaned, slumping into a chair. ‘Goodness me.’

She pulled over a flower-pattern Thermos jug. Poured coffee.

‘Goodness me!’

Small cups with roses on. ‘Sugar in your coffee?’

Frank shook his head.

A somewhat muggy smell. As though you might expect to find moss inside the walls. A kind of grandmother smell. Small, round pictures. Light blue wallpaper with neutral white flowers. Needlework. Embroidery and knitting. The lady herself in the middle of the wall. A baby on each arm and a happy dentures smile on her face.

‘I told you, I don’t know anything.’

Nerves. Teeth clicking.

Gunnarstranda sipped the coffee. ‘When did you find him?’

‘Today, this morning.’

‘What time was it?’

‘Half past eight. After the morning service on the radio.’

Gunnarstranda nodded slowly.

‘Mm,’ she sighed. ‘Goodness me!’

‘It must have been terrible,’ the policeman said sympathetically.

‘I told the man with the pisstool! I don’t know anything.’

‘Pisstool? Pistol!’ Frank spluttered.

Gunnarstranda nodded. ‘He said you’d seen Sigurd Klavestad leaving last night!’

She breathed in. Scratched her forearms. ‘Yes, that’s right. He did leave, that’s for certain!’

‘When was that?’

‘Four o’clock in the morning.’

‘It was night. You noticed the time?’

Energetic shake of the head. Wispy hair lashing her face.

‘I was up. I sleep so badly I was up and heard him running down the stairs!’

‘He ran down the stairs?’

‘Yes, first time.’

‘He ran down the stairs and came back up again?’

Elise Engebregtsen breathed in and nodded.

‘How do you know it was him?’

Shrug of the shoulders. ‘Just think it was.’

‘But you’re not sure it was him?’

‘I told you, I don’t know anything!’

‘But something made you think it was him running down the stairs!’

‘Yes, he usually makes a lot of noise.’

‘It’s happened before?’

Another nod.

‘So he came down again, after he ran up?’

Nod.

‘Did he run then, too?’

‘No, I didn’t hear him until he was out of the house.’

‘So he walked down slowly the second time?’

Nod.

‘How much time had passed?’

‘Ten minutes, fifteen maybe.’

‘Did you see him leaving the building?’

‘Yes.’

‘How? Did you see his face?’

‘I saw it was him.’

‘But you didn’t see his face?’

‘Saw his coat, his body.’

‘So it could have been someone else?’

‘It was him!’

Angry now. Her mouth was a straight line and there was a deep furrow between her eyes which disappeared as her face contracted.

Gunnarstranda nodded. Sipped more coffee.

‘What were you going to do outside?’

‘Get rid of the rubbish!’

‘What happened?’

‘Couldn’t open the door.’

‘You couldn’t open the door?’

‘No.’

Gunnarstranda waited patiently.

‘Managed to open it a tiny crack.’

She shivered. Scratched her forearms again.

‘A crack.’

Very ill at ease now. Wandering eyes.

Gunnarstranda waited.

‘Just saw this tiny white hand!’

‘The hand, yes . . .’

Gunnarstranda nodded, his gaze fixed on her; it was like extracting words from a child that would not stop scratching.

‘And on the floor . . .’

‘On the floor, yes . . .’

‘Blood on the floor . . .’

‘Blood, yes, a hand and blood . . .’

‘Then I saw it in the crack!’

‘Saw the dead man, the body on the floor. Mhm.’

Gunnarstranda leaned back. ‘Was he blocking your way? I mean, was his body blocking the door?’

She nodded.

‘Close your eyes now,’ the policeman said.

She obediently followed his instructions.

‘And try to imagine Klavestad as he was leaving last night.’

She nodded.

‘Can you see his face?’

‘No.’

‘But you can see his body?’

‘Yes.’

Gunnarstranda got up. Stared out. The town lay grey and dull beneath him. ‘Did he walk down the road?’

‘Yes, down.’

‘Keep your eyes closed, fru Engebregtsen. You can see him walking down the road. You can see his body in the light of the street lamps. Black, full-length coat, right?’

‘Yes, the black coat. Yes, yes.’

‘His hair? Did he have a pony tail or not?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Why not?’

‘I can’t see.’

‘Does he turn round?’

‘No. I leave the window and go to bed.’

She sat as before, with her eyes open.

Gunnarstranda was staring, serious. ‘Are you sure it was Klavestad you saw?’

Irritated now. ‘Yes, I told you I was.’

‘But you didn’t see a pony tail?’

‘No, I think he was wearing a hood.’

The detective nodded. ‘A hood,’ he mumbled. ‘Have you often seen this neighbour without a pony tail?’

Shrug of the shoulders.

The inspector is serious. ‘You know, fru Engebregtsen, I’ve never seen him without his pony tail. Can you remember if you’ve ever seen him like that?’

Another shrug.

‘Fru Engebregtsen?’

Another shrug. Scratched. Scratch marks on her arms. ‘Goodness me!’

Gunnarstranda sighed. Fiddled with his coffee cup. He sighed again. ‘Thank you very much for helping us, fru Engebregtsen.’

She didn’t answer, just went on scratching her arms nervously. Her dentures clicked.

Gunnarstranda got to his feet, nodded to Frank. ‘Soon, some other officers will come and take a statement. I hope you won’t mind telling them what you’ve just told me.’

She didn’t answer.

The two detectives turned and left. The last thing they heard was the click as Trout-Mouth went catching flies that weren’t there.

‘The racket she heard must have been Sigurd Klavestad falling down the stairs,’ Gunnarstranda said to Frank in the car afterwards.

He nodded without taking his eyes off the road.

‘The murderer must have gone back up,’ the inspector continued. ‘Cleaned off the blood in the bathroom. Gone into the sitting room, burned his outdoor clothes, which were stained with blood, to remove any evidence, put on some of Sigurd’s clothes and left.’

‘So it was the murderer she saw leaving, not Sigurd?’

‘I presume so.’

‘How did the bastard lure the victim on to the stairs?’

‘Sigurd must have been woken up. The telephone was used as a warning with the girl. Presumably the murderer rings and warns them before coming. At any rate, I doubt he stands ding-a-linging the doorbell for hours. It would be too risky. But after phoning he rang the bell. Klavestad opened up, fine, but it’s a job to know what happened afterwards.’

‘The murderer may have hidden on the stairs.’

‘Or he was someone Klavestad had no reason to fear,’ Gunnarstranda suggested.

‘An execution.’

‘Right!’

The police inspector waved his hand in annoyance.

‘But why on the stairs?’

Gunnarstranda stared out of the window, rapt in thought. ‘Suggests nerves. It would have been safer inside the flat.’

Frank couldn’t make that add up. ‘Whoever did this cannot be nervous!’

‘That’s exactly what he was,’ Gunnarstranda objected calmly. ‘Scared shitless. The fact that the murder took place at all suggests the murderer knows he has to be quick. The whole sequence of events reeks of panic.’

Frank said nothing.

‘For the time being,’ Gunnarstranda broke the silence. ‘I’m keen to find out what the peeping tom was doing last night. So, let’s take a drive down there.’

Today there was more life in Johansen’s block. A strong, agreeable smell of curry met them on the stairs, causing Frank’s stomach to issue soft rumbles of lament, but they were not audible over all the shouts and laughter of games emanating from the open door of one flat.

These sounds grew fainter as they ascended. At the top the children’s noise could hardly be heard and the stink of stale staircase dominated the food aromas from downstairs.

The old-timer showed them in, sat down in the battered chair and indicated the sofa while flicking his old Zippo into life. Frank cleared away the rubbish and freed up a spot to sit down. Took out his notepad and pencil. Signalled to Gunnarstranda that he was ready.

‘I’m going to talk now,’ the inspector said from the window, ‘and you tell me if you agree or disagree afterwards. Is that all right?’

Johansen didn’t say a word, just sent the little man by the window a dismissive glare. Inhaled smoke with a rattle of the throat.

‘Reidun Rosendal was killed in her flat.’

Johansen glanced over at Frank. ‘Bright sort, your boss, isn’t he,’ he sneered.

Gunnarstranda ignored the comment and continued:

‘The place was turned upside down as if there had been a burglary. But no everyday objects of value were touched. Hence there is a good chance the evidence left after the burglary was intended to be a red herring. A ruse carried out by the murderer to mislead the investigation. If this proves to be correct then the murderer, even though the intention was to kill her, must have had an ulterior motive. In which case potential suspects can be limited to the circle we might call Rosendal’s network. Family, friends, enemies and admirers.’

The latter was pronounced with especial irony. ‘You,’ Gunnarstranda emphasized, ‘You are a part of this network. And from here you have a view of her flat.’

‘A witness,’ Johansen interrupted with firmness. ‘I am a witness you have already established saw nothing at all.’

He burst into a coughing fit, but still had to have a few more drags of his cigarette when it was over. The cigarette was a moist brown colour between the man’s nicotine-stained fingers. The bloodshot left eye had improved to such an extent that now only the network of veins in the corner was visible.

‘How many people did you see go through the gate on Sunday morning?’

‘I’ve already told you!’

‘Which other men did you see in her flat?’

Johansen said nothing.

‘Who visited her recently?’

‘Nice weather today, isn’t it?’

Johansen’s tone was if possible even drier than before, and he stubbed out the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray before meeting Gunnarstranda’s eye, unwilling to yield an inch. He sat breathing asthmatically through a half-open mouth.

Silence descended.

‘Did you ever ring Reidun Rosendal?’

‘No.’

‘Did you ring her last week?’

‘No!’

‘And if I insist you spoke to her on the phone last week?’

Johansen sat still, staring into space.

‘You’re lying to me, Johansen.’

‘No, I am not!’ the old man barked. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Even the bags under his eyes moved. ‘I had forgotten.’

‘Did you also forget that you were tossing yourself off in this window as well?’

Johansen breathed in.

‘Have you forgotten what you said on the phone?’

Johansen didn’t answer.

‘You threatened her.’

Johansen’s shoulders began to twitch.

‘What did you say to her, Johansen?’

The twitches in the man’s shoulder subsided. His eyes had gone hard. ‘You don’t know, do you,’ he confirmed with a triumphant laugh. ‘You haven’t a bloody clue what I said!’

The inspector’s voice repeated the question, this time with a metallic tone: ‘What did you say to her, Johansen?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know!’

Frank could see Johansen was mentally there, or close, but then he retreated, into his own head. He unleashed a grin and revealed a row of bad teeth.

‘I told her how she should be fucked!’

The two policemen’s eyes bulged.

‘How she should be fucked up the arse!’ he crowed with a manic cackle and slapped his thigh. The laughter degenerated into coughing.

The two detectives didn’t move.

The old boy had to take out a handkerchief. Soon his breathing was a heavy rattle, back to normal. It was clear he felt he had scored a victory. Still he slanted his watery eyes towards the inspector as though expecting him to fall to the floor.

‘I believe you,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘That is what you told her. But
she
didn’t agree!’

Again the room went silent. Johansen’s breathing was a gurgle.

‘
She
didn’t agree,’ the detective repeated. ‘That was why she left the curtains open on Saturday, to show you how it should be done!’

‘You’re lying!’ Johansen whispered, without looking up.

‘She let you have a real eyeful,’ Gunnarstranda hissed. ‘She lay on her back wriggling under the lad, teasing you, poking you with a stick the way she would have poked a little rat in a cage to death!’

‘No!’

Johansen jumped up from the chair with a wrinkled fist ready for a fight. Instantly Frank was up and grabbed his arm. It was dry and uneven to hold, like corrugated cardboard.

‘You’re lying!’ Johansen screamed as the policeman forced him back into the chair. He didn’t feel anything, just stared manically at the bald little man moving from the window towards him with narrow, flashing eyes.

‘She was teasing you,’ the detective laughed. ‘She brought out the devil in you, Johansen. The devil that couldn’t bear to be led on. The devil that screamed the little whore down there should burn. She should be brought to her knees! She should burn! Burn in hell! So that was why you didn’t give in until she was lying on the floor with no breath left in her body!’

Johansen didn’t answer. He hid his face in his large creased hands.

The inspector watched him for a while. Then returned to the window.

Frank peered up and met his boss’s eyes. Both waited.

At last the man removed his hands from his face.

‘What were you doing in Torshov on Wednesday?’ Gunnarstranda asked.

‘Afternoon stroll,’ Johansen answered. He had recovered some of the cold cynicism he displayed at first.

‘Where were you last night?’

‘Here.’

‘Can anyone confirm that?’

‘No.’

‘You were observed walking in Agathe Grøndahls gate at half past twelve on Wednesday. Were you there?’

‘You know everything already,’ came a meeker response.

‘Yes or no!’ the officer barked.

‘Yes.’

‘Did you go to Agathe Grøndals gate at a later point, Wednesday afternoon, Wednesday evening or last night?’

‘No.’

The old boy took a stub from the ashtray, managed to light it with some difficulty, his right hand trembled as he smoked. Johansen held it with his left to stop the trembling. Gave up. Put down the cigarette.

‘Old injury,’ he tried to explain.

‘Are you aware that Sigurd Klavestad lived there, in the house in Agathe Grøndals gate where you were observed on Wednesday?’

‘Who the hell is Sigurd Klavestad?’ the man scowled in a barely audible voice. His neck had suddenly become very stiff.

‘The young man with the pony tail you followed from here all the way up to Agathe Grøndals gate.’

Johansen didn’t answer now. He was staring at the floor.

‘He’s been murdered.’

The old man’s head embarked on a slow movement. His gaze rose from the floor.

‘Someone cut the young man’s throat last night.’

Johansen was breathing heavily. ‘Murdered?’

His mouth hung open. A drop of saliva had collected on his lower lip. Like a sleepwalker he got up and began to pace to and fro. ‘So he’s dead, is he?’

He rubbed his right thigh as he walked.

‘Did you know that, Johansen?’

The old man continued to pace the room in silence.

‘Answer the question!’

‘No.’ Johansen’s voice sounded tame. ‘I didn’t know.’

He stopped, took a deep breath and pressed down his right leg.

‘Work injury. The nerves just go now and then.’

Frank could not keep his eyes away from the uncontrolled twitching in the old man’s hands and legs.

‘The only thing that helps is to walk a bit, to do something,’ he continued.

‘Why did you follow him?’ Gunnarstranda asked in a more friendly tone.

Johansen sat down. ‘He was here,’ he sighed in a weary voice. ‘Down there.’

The man tossed his head towards the window. Took the pouch on the table. Removed some tobacco and a rolling paper. But the trembling index and middle fingers caused him to tear the paper. Johansen stared dejectedly at the mess and the tobacco on the floor.

‘Here you are!’ Gunnarstranda passed him one of his roll-ups and held out the lighter.

Johansen inhaled. ‘I followed him because I wanted . . . I think I wanted to do him in,’ he said blowing out the smoke. But he straightened up when he saw Gunnarstranda’s look. ‘I said I thought I wanted to do it,’ he stressed. ‘In my head I wanted to kill him or something like that.’

He stared at Frank. Turned to address Gunnarstranda. ‘He was here,’ he repeated in a panic. ‘Down by the Dælenenga fence! Round here!’

He got up, made a scramble for the window and looked out. ‘He stabbed her,’ he insisted with vehemence. ‘Cut her up!’

His voice cracked and he had to clear his throat. ‘I wanted to do him in. I followed him, found out where he lived!’

‘What other men have you seen in her flat?’

Silence.

‘You did see some, didn’t you.’

Silence.

‘You’ve been watching this rose of yours for two years, Johansen. You saw people there!’

Nod.

‘Who?’

The old-timer stumped back to his chair and sat down. His hands gripped both arm rests.

Gunnarstranda followed. ‘Who?’

No answer.

‘Who?’

Frank noticed the bags under his eyes. The sallow hue of his skin. The round shoulders and the mass of dandruff on his faded clothes. He contemplated a very small man sunken in the chair.

Johansen cleared his throat. ‘No one.’

His composure was back. ‘No one,’ he repeated evasively, with his eyes closed. ‘Just her.’

The old man drifted off. Mumbling something incomprehensible.

Gunnarstranda moved. ‘You’ll have to come with us to the station in Grønland. We have to take your fingerprints.’

Johansen lowered his head.

‘We’re going to search your premises.’

Frank got up wearily and at once started to open the drawers of an old bureau leaning gently against the wall. The inspector bent over the old man. ‘You’re hiding something, Johansen,’ he whispered. ‘You’re keeping your mouth shut about far too many things! But I can promise you one thing! If we find a single knife or anything sharper than a fish slice in this dump, there won’t be any bus trips home for you afterwards!’

Frank rummaged through the drawer. Pencils, biros and a bit of fishing line. A rusty nut was the only metal object he found.
This is going to take time,
he thought patiently, picking up a beer cap.